


The Sign Of The Four (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [58]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Massage, Murder, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 22:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10795845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock saves the life of someone who Watson does not like one little bit. And a certain detective bares his.... chest, leaving a certain doctor teetering dangerously on the edge of another Moment.





	The Sign Of The Four (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hrhleia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hrhleia/gifts).



This case resides in my memory for two reasons. Firstly, a story involving serial killing ended up, by a terrible coincidence, being published just as the city of London was being terrorized by a serial killer, and even though the dates and events in the story showed that I could not have foreseen this unhappy coincidence, I still felt somewhat guilty. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, the case brought a female – I shall not overstretch the English language by using the term 'lady' - into my life, who was to make me feel things that... well, things that I was not accustomed to feel. Fortunately I was (and still am, some blue-eyed genius would say) a Grandmaster of Denial, which was probably just as well.

+~+~+

I will not deny that my recent encounter with young Lord Blackwater, and his scurrilous accusations against me, had made my flesh crawl. The evening that he left, I took a long bath – I felt the urge to somehow 'wash him off of me', stupid although that probably was. The only redeeming factor was that Sherlock had come to my rescue, although the accusations made by that man had stung. I was a Victorian gentleman, damnation, and I did not.... well, Sherlock would not.... oh bother!

The worst thing was that my relationship with my genius friend might, to some outsiders, look as if we were... well, as if we were. Frankly I wondered at times why Sherlock kept me around; there had to be many women out there who would have jumped at (if not paid good money for) the chance to become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes and, whilst there was no familial pressure on his to marry (for which I silently blessed his formidable and absolutely terrifying mother), I still wondered why he had not ditched me for some attractive lady friend.

In light of what happened next, I really had to start learning to keep such thoughts to myself.

+~+~+

It was the eighth of June, barely two weeks until the Golden Jubilee celebrations officially started, when I opened the "Times" at our breakfast-table to read about the various happenings in the Great Wen. In the few days since the ending of the Lord Blackwater case, I had taken to reading with some trepidation, in case there were further allegations or insinuations against either of us, but fortunately there had been none. 

I had almost finished when the great detective lurched out of his room and, unusually, headed for his fireside chair rather than his coffee and Mrs. Harvelle's delicious breakfast. More than a little perturbed – this was like the Moon deciding that it would orbit Venus rather than Earth – I poured him his over-sweetened coffee and took it to his chair, wherein he had slumped. He had got in after I had fallen asleep last night, and viewing his wrecked form now, I could guess why. He looked absolutely awful! 

Bloodshot blue eyes gazed remorsefully up at me.

“I was at Gaylord's new hotel last night”, he whispered, his voice hoarse. “All those theories about a man's alcohol capacity being linked to body mass? Tommyrot!”

I went and fetched him a plateful of bacon (yes, I had put half my rashers aside for him, and no, that did not mean that I was 'whipped'!), which he accepted with a weak smile, a smile that widened as I applied the ketchup for him.

“Bacchus is coming over today”, he said.

I frowned. Still, at least I would miss the supercilious, overbearing, pompous stuffed ass.

“I sense that you do not exactly like him”, Sherlock said, looking quizzically at me. Apparently the mind-reading thing worked even when he was only semi-functional, damnation!

“He takes advantage of you”, I grunted. “I shall be in my room, writing. With the door locked.”

“Your work progresses well?” he asked.

I nodded. 

“I have nearly completed the Brackhampton case”, I said, “and then I have to edit it. I think that that takes longer than the actual writing; I am always finding something that needs changing or that could have been better expressed.”

I stopped. He was looking disappointed for some reason. I knew that the kicked puppy eyes and my caving to whatever he asked was just minutes away but he looked so sad that I could not have turned away for all the tea in China.

“What is it that I about to say yes to?” I asked resignedly.

“I was hoping that you might stay when he calls”, he said, looking piteously at me. “I know that you do not like him much, but I am sure that he has another interesting case for us both.”

Again, I felt a silly little warm feeling at the 'us both'. 

“Besides”, he went on, “your presence annoys him so much!”

“So you just want me here to tease your brother?” I pouted. “Harrumph!”

“Of course not!” he protested.

I looked sharply at him. He took another mouthful of bacon and looked sheepish.

“Not completely”, he muttered, activating the eyes.

I sighed. I was putty in this man's hands, damnation! Life was unfair!

+~+~+

He had, of course, been right. The scowl on Mr. Bacchus Holmes' face when I sat down at the table was almost worth putting up with the smarmy lounge-lizard. He clearly wanted to object, but his brother had equally clearly made it plain that my presence was non-negotiable.

“This case only came to light by a fluke”, our unwelcome visitor began. “We have been very lucky. Even so, it may end very badly if we cannot stop what looks like one of those damn serial killers.”

I wondered at his 'what looks like'. Surely a serial killer was a serial killer?

“On the first of this month, Miss Elizabeth Wakefield went to open up her mother's sweet-shop in the Strand”, he said. “They sell the very finest confectionery, and they serve some of the top people in the City. Upon unlocking the store she set things up, and after a while went to the back office to make herself a cup of tea. There she found the bead body of her mother, Mrs. Annie Wakefield. The latter had been shot, and it was later established that it must have happened around closing time the day before. Unfortunately Miss Wakefield had been staying with friends in Essex overnight, so did not notice her mother's absence from their Bayswater home. I should also add that the body had been dragged some distance, inferring that she had most likely been shot in the store itself.”

“It so happened that the constable who initially attended the call was one Michael Finnigan, based at your friend Henriksen's station. Naturally as a murder investigation it passed out of his hands, but he did have to write a report stating what he had found when he had arrived at the scene. It was one odd thing that stuck in his memory, and a good thing that it did.”

“What?” I asked.

“There was a deck of playing-cards on the table, as if she had been playing patience”, our visitor said. “The constable was sharp; he spotted something wrong with the way the cards looked, and checked them. He found that the fours had all been removed, and were lined up on the edge of a table, except for the four of hearts, which was on the floor. Someone had written a list of names on the fallen card, and he'd noted them down; 'Alex, Annie, Alexis, Ann'.”

“It looked like just another pointless murder”, he continued, “until I got a call from Sergeant Bristol down at a station in Brockley, near Deptford in south London. Finnigan's cousin Henry West works there, and last night he went there to pick his cousin up and go into town for a drink. Although it's technically against the rules, they discussed the cases they were on or had done recently, and West told him about a murder that had been reported that same day. The circumstances were pretty much the same, it turned out. They rushed over to Finnigan's station and told Henriksen, who had the good sense to pass it on to me.”

Pompous ass, I thought. 

Sherlock shot me a warning look. I managed not to roll my eyes, but it was close.

“Was the second murder identical to the first?” Sherlock asked, pressing his long fingers together and still eyeing me carefully. His brother flipped open a notebook.

“Miss Louise Mainwaring was found dead at her house in Endwell Road at just after nine o'clock yesterday morning”, he said. “She was an unusual lady, by all accounts. Her passion was gardening, and she offered a complete gardening service for her customers. She would design, build and even maintain whatever garden her clients wanted. She charged for it, and then some, but she had built up quite a clientele. People will pay for good service, and the few customers we have tracked down thus far all spoke very highly of her.”

“I am to take it that playing-cards were involved again?” Sherlock asked. His brother nodded.

“The three other fours had been placed on a table, and the four of spades lay on the floor”, he said. “It had the same list of names on it as at the first murder. It was West's mention of that that twigged young Finnegan to what was happening. And Miss Mainwaring's middle name was Alexis. This is bad.”

“Murder is always bad”, I intoned. The brothers both looked at me.

“Bacchus is referring not just to the cards”, Sherlock said, “but to the dates.”

I stared in confusion.

“What happens in two weeks' time?” Bacchus asked snappily.

I suddenly saw what he was driving at. My stomach plummeted.

“Her Majesty!” I gasped. Our visitor nodded.

“Assuming that Her Majesty, whom we know is christened Alexandrina, is the Four of Diamonds – and she does have a crown with four prominent stones in it – then if 'the 'Four of Clubs', Ann, is set to be murdered six days from now, we have someone who could cause a complete panic in the city”, he said. “We may even have to cancel all Her Majesty's public appearances.”

“I doubt that she will agree to that”, Sherlock observed. “Assassination attempts are par for the course when it comes to royalty, and she has survived her fair share of them. She may still be grieving her late husband, but she will not shirk from meeting her faithful public.”

(My friend was of course right. What would turn out to be the last of eight attempts on the Queen's life had occurred only five years back. Most of them had been from those suffering from some form of mental instability, but there had been suspicions that some of the earlier ones had been at the instigation of her uncle the King of Hanover, who might have re-united our two countries had the Queen died without issue).

“I would like you to find this 'Ann'”, Bacchus said. “Preferably before she – or our Queen - meets their doom.”

“It is all rather odd, do you not think?” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“A playing-card serial killer with a penchant for killing people whose names start with an 'A'?” his brother scoffed. “Ten-a-penny. We get those every other week!”

Sherlock glared at him. His brother subsided. I only narrowly suppressed a snigger.

“If the person behind these crimes wished merely to assassinate Her Majesty, they could easily strike at a time and place of their choosing”, he said. “This ties them to a single day, and even though she will be processing through London, the security will be formidable. I wonder if the motives behind these crimes is perhaps more complex?”

“I don't care what the bastard's motives are”, his brother said curtly. “I just want him stopped.”

“Or her”, I muttered. 

“'She' would have to be very muscular, then”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said. “The late Mrs. Wakefield was a large woman and she was dragged a fair distance, including up a short flight of stairs.”

“I should like to see Mrs. Wakefield's shop”, Sherlock said. “Is that possible?”

“Her daughter is running the place now, so that should not be a problem”, his brother said. “Will you go today?”

“Yes”, Sherlock said. “You will see if you can find 'the Four of Clubs', whilst Watson and I will go down the Strand.”

I did not smile at his brother's visible annoyance at my inclusion in matters.

All right, I did not smile that much!

All right, I beamed!

+~+~+

We lunched at my favourite little restaurant in Trafalgar Square, and were walking down to the confectionery shop when I suddenly stopped.

“Look!” I said excitedly, pointing across the road. 

Sherlock followed my arm, but only looked at me in confusion.

“The sporting wear shop!” I said. “'Clubs' could refer to golf!”

“Very good, doctor”, my friend smiled. “We shall have to send a message to Bacchus, to tell him to investigate that possibility. Ah, we are here.”

"The Chocolate Drop" was a small but tidy little shop, and I had to admit that the display of chocolaty goodness was making me hungry again, despite having just had pie (look, someone had not let me have a second helping, the bastard!). It was hard to believe that we had known of chocolate as a drink for hundreds of years, yet the first actual chocolate bar had only appeared just before I had been born. Scientists really needed to get their priorities right!

To my surprise Sherlock did not enter the shop, but stood back and looked thoughtfully at the doorway for some time. It was directly next to the entrance to the tobacconist's next door, and it was into that shop that he walked. A young blond man looked up from cleaning the counter as he approached.

“Mr. Drake Honeydew?” Sherlock asked politely.

“No”, the man said, “I am his son, Derek. How may I be of service?”

“I am investigating the tragic murder of Mrs. Wakefield”, Sherlock said. “Were you or your father here on the evening in question?”

The man scratched his chin in thought.

“I was here”, he said. “But the Wakefields keep - kept themselves to themselves, pretty much.”

Sherlock smiled lazily, and leant across the counter.

“Mr. Honeydew”, he said quietly, “it really would behoove you to tell me the whole truth. I can assure you that the Metropolitan Police Service does not take kindly to people who withhold information about a crime, for whatever reason.”

The man went so pale that I feared he was going to faint, and I moved forward. He grasped the counter for support.

“Sir.....”

“It is Miss Wakefield's locket that you are wearing, is it not?” Sherlock said gently. “Mr. Honeydew, if you tell us all, I can ensure the information reaches the right people, and that you do not suffer. Otherwise, however, I would be obliged to inform the local police directly. I doubt that they would be quite so accommodating.”

He swallowed hard, then pulled himself together and came round to the door. He flipped the sign over to 'Closed', and shut the blinds; fortunately the light from the large front window coming over the partition kept the room from being dark. He returned to his place behind the counter and eyed us warily.

“Her mother caught me in the back garden just after closing”, he admitted. “She had never approved of my suit. We exchanged angry words; I doubt that anyone overheard us, but I was probably the last person to see her alive.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful.

“Do you know if she had locked up by then?” he asked.

“Most definitely!” the tobacconist said. “The shop was broken into last year, which was when she had the extra security gate fitted at the front. My father had his installed by the same firm at the same time.”

“But someone could have gained access through the back?”

“I do not think so. After our confrontation, I spent the next two hours working in the garden. There is only a low fence between us, and I am sure that I would have seen anyone entering the house that way.”

Sherlock nodded at that.

“I shall tell Sergeant Henriksen that you only remembered this when I questioned you”, he said reassuringly. “Doctor Watson and I must be on our way. Good-day, sir.”

We left the tobacconist, and I was again surprised that Sherlock did not go into the confectioner's, instead hailing a cab to take us back to Baker Street.

“How did you know that he was seeing the lady?” I wondered. He smiled.

“There was a distinct sense of perfume in the shop”, he said, “and the door to the back was very slightly open. I noticed when we were outside the shop that there were two shadows inside, not one, so hesitated to allow her – and I do hope that it was Miss Wakefield – to make her escape. I also noted that there was a pattern in the dust heading towards the door, one typically made by a lady's dress when she moves in a hurry. It would have been both pointless and cruel to then go and question her.”

I sighed. I would never make a detective.

“We know a little more about the time of death, then”, I said.

“We know much more than that”, he said gravely.

“How so?” I asked.

“Mrs. Wakefield must have known her killer”, he said. “Remember, Mr. Honeydew said she was very security-conscious, which fits with what we know of her, yet she must have admitted someone through that locked gate. Presumably the killer locked the gate when he left and threw the keys away, most likely into the Thames.”

“What about our second victim, Miss Mainwaring?” I asked.

“Henriksen is sending Constable West to see us when he clocks on, first thing tomorrow”, Sherlock said. “He says that the man keeps excellent records. We shall see.”

+~+~+

There is a saying that you know you are getting old when policemen start to look too young to do their job. I was only thirty-five, but Constable Henry West looked like he was barely out of school. He was clearly nervous about meeting us, but he had brought his notebook with him.

“A boy brought a message into the station at a quarter past nine”, he began.

“Who from?” Sherlock interrupted.

“He said a man with a red face – I know – knocked on his door and asked if someone could take an urgent message to the local police station, as something terrible had happened at Number Eight”, he said. “Constable Williams on duty took down what description he could, but all the boy could remember was that he was youngish, had hair as red as his face, and smelt funny. Like a paint factory, the boy said. The man gave him a sixpence for the job, which is well over the going rate, but he said that it was urgent.”

“I presume that no-one answering that description emerged later in the case?” Sherlock asked. The policeman shook his head.

“Miss Mainwaring's brother's all have dark hair, so no. And the boy described the man as thin, which none of the brothers are. Plus their alibis all checked out. I ran to the house....”

“I am sorry to keep interrupting you, constable”, Sherlock said, “but were you the first officer to reach the murder scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock frowned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The police station is five streets away from Mrs. Mainwaring's house”, Sherlock said. “Bacchus sent me a map of the area. Two constables patrol there, and anyone wishing to summon the police would surely have first sent someone to find one of them.”

“I did think that myself, sir”, Constable West said, “and I took the precaution of asking Williams – not the duty officer; we have two Williamses - and Allen if they saw anything. Williams was half a mile away, but Allen was in the next street. If this man had blown a whistle or even yelled, he would have come running.”

“We may assume, then, that whoever sent the boy wanted time to remove themselves from the area”, Sherlock said. “So far, so good. Proceed with your fascinating tale, please.”

“I reached the house at a little before a quarter past nine”, the constable said. “The town hall clock was striking as I opened the front gate. The front door was closed but unlocked. I entered, and after a short search found the deceased lady in the lounge. She had been shot once, at close range, and probably less than half an hour before my arrival.”

“Are you certain?” Sherlock asked.

“Quite, sir. I.... um, I enjoy detective fiction, and particularly the tales of your good self. Not in your stories, but I read once that shooting someone close in leaves a scorch mark, which does not happen at a distance. Miss Mainwaring knew her attacker, as she not only admitted him to the house, but let him into the lounge. There was no sign of her body having been moved after death. And the wound had only just stopped bleeding.”

“You have done well, constable”, Sherlock praised. “Anything else?”

The policeman hesitated.

“It may be nothing, sir”, he said, “but there was a fire in the lounge.”

“So?” I asked. Sherlock tutted at me.

“Watson, the weather all last week was exceptionally warm for the time of year”, he said. “Miss Mainwaring would have no need of a fire, or at least, not for warmth. Which reminds me; what about servants?”

“Miss Mainwaring lived alone except for a housemaid, Mavis Wright”, the constable said. “She lives down the road at number forty-one. That was the other odd thing; she did not lay the fire, which must mean that either Miss Mainwaring or her killer did. Poor Mavis had gone home for a few hours to check on her invalid mother; her mistress did not object to her 'breaking her day' like that, provided all her tasks were done before she finally left. She arrived back ten minutes after I came, and fainted in the hall when I told her what had happened.”

“Did she later say whether Miss Mainwaring was in the habit of admitting people to her house?” Sherlock asked.

“She said most definitely not”, the constable said firmly. “Her employer valued her independence. One other thing; she had recently taken on some workers for her business and had sold shares in her business to her brothers, although she still owned more than half of it. But as I said, their alibis were all solid.”

“ _Cui bono?_ ” I muttered.

“No-one, really”, the constable said. “I talked with her lawyer, and he told me the contents of her will. She left Mavis Wright a small legacy, but now the girl is now out of a job, although Albert - one of the brothers - did say that he would write her a reference, which was good of him. Mrs. Mainwaring's share of the business is split equally between her brothers, and her house and moneys all go to the local cat's home. I might add that she told her lawyer that no-one was to know about the will, so maybe her brothers were expecting more. Of course, when Mike told me about the playing-card in his murder, I insisted on us going and seeing his boss and telling him about the connection. Mike thought that we might get into trouble for discussing cases off work, but I told him it was too important to worry about that.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Have you yourself any thoughts about whether or not there will be two more murders?” he asked.

The man reddened.

“I got the link about the royal connection, sir”, he said. “But finding someone with a connection to the number four and clubs in a city this size – it'll be all but impossible. And we don't know whether Ann is her first or middle name.”

“I agree”, my friend said. “Let us hope Sergeant Henriksen can find something.”

+~+~+

Sergeant Henriksen found rather too much. He had brought a map of the city, with red dots on each of the potential victims. It looked like it had had an outbreak of measles.

“It is bloody impossible!” he exclaimed. “We found seventy-one people who could be the next victim, all with some club connection, and we can't warn all of them, or some will talk to the press. And then we will have a major panic!”

“Which I suspect the victim wants”, Sherlock muttered. “We are missing something here, gentlemen. We have a murder in the Strand, and one in Brockley. Apart from the number four, is there any other connection?”

There was an awkward silence, until Sherlock suddenly slapped his hand onto the table.

“Trains!”

“What?” I asked.

He did not answer, but pointed to two spots on the map. 

“Numbers thirteen and sixty-four”, he said. “Who are they?”

Henriksen checked his list. 

“Sixty-four is Mrs. Ann Corland-Fourmile, who works at a sweets shop in the Surrey Quays. Married with one young son, her husband is a member of the darts club at the local tavern, which is weak but it is a link. Thirteen is Mrs. Margaret Ann Masters, née Fortescue, a widow who lives in Bermondsey. Again a weak link but the doctor here could be right; her late husband used to play golf, and she still has his clubs. He died in a train crash two years ago.”

Sherlock sat back, a knowing smile on his face.

“Henriksen”, he said, “I think that we may be able to catch a killer.”

+~+~+

As a doctor, I make it a point not to let my personal feelings ever get the better of me. Or at least, I try to. But from the first sight of Mrs. Margaret Masters, and my good intentions went out of the window. I knew that her husband had died not so long ago, but within moments it was clear both that she was looking to re-marry, and that she considered Sherlock to be the ideal candidate. The hungry way in which she looked at him whilst we introduced ourselves made me feel more than a little uneasy. Fortunately Henriksen was able to impress on her the need for secrecy (if not decorum), and we were soon ensconced safely in her back room, well away from her hungry dark eyes. 

“You are sure that you told no-one at the station about this?” Sherlock asked.

“You don't think one of my own men....” 

“Gossip is the fastest thing after light”, Sherlock interrupted. “I would rather not take any chances, as this may be our only chance to stop the man before an attack on Her Majesty.”

Henriksen nodded his agreement.

“I sent that message you wanted to young West”, he said. “You were right,. When he found the boy, the lad did remember one other thing about the man, though I do not see how it helps your case.”

“His hair was wet, yet it had not been raining”, Sherlock smiled.

I chuckled quietly to myself as Henriksen's jaw dropped open. He stared hard at my friend, but Sherlock just shrugged and would say nothing. Instead we discussed a rota for sleeping, as we could not chance that the killer would not strike during the night. 

I had the first watch, and thankfully, we were undisturbed. Three hours later I woke Henriksen, and managed to get about five hours' sleep before being shaken awake by my friend. From the weak light coming in through the thin curtains, it was around dawn.

“Rise, doctor”, he whispered. “Someone is at the door.”

I reached for my revolver, and readied myself. We could hear Mrs. Masters opening the door to her visitor, and from her tone she did not seem surprised. She followed the instructions that Sherlock had given her, and told her visitor that she would be back shortly, but had to check her breakfast. She then hurried into our room (fortunately it was next to the kitchen), and we waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, the visitor walked quietly down the hall, and the door handle slowly turned. It was light outside, but the room was poorly lit by the one window, by which Mrs. Masters was standing. I was hidden behind the screen, watching through a small peep-hole that I had found, whilst Sherlock was behind a dresser and Henriksen behind the open door into the kitchen. The visitor was male and wearing dark clothes, but I could make out nothing more – until I saw the unmistakable glint of a gun.

Henriksen stepped out from behind the door, and the man turned to point his weapon at him, only to have it dashed from his hand by Sherlock's stick, which came down on the visitor's wrist with a thwack. He groaned in pain, and by the time he had recovered Henriksen had the cuffs on him. He struggled at first, but the feel of my gun pressing into his chest soon quieted him. Mrs. Masters turned on the light, and we could finally see his face. Henriksen gasped in shock.

“Finnigan?”

+~+~+

Henriksen quickly summoned a couple of local policeman, and within half an hour his colleague had been taken away. I was relieved it was all over, though uneasy again at the way that Mrs. Masters all but draped herself over Sherlock in gratitude. My friend seemed more than a little surprised at her over-eagerness, though I noted he did not attempt to move away. I frowned.

“What I want to know”, Henriksen said, “is how you knew that he would come here, of all the seventy-odd people we had lined up.”

“Constable West gave me a clue”, Sherlock said, detaching himself (at last!) from the overly-effusive Mrs. Masters.

“I do not remember him saying anything”, I said. 

“It was not what he said, but what he had in his hand”, Sherlock said. “A return ticket to his home in New Cross Gate.”

All three of us stared in confusion.

“Consider the location of the first two murders”, he said. “The first was in the Strand, which adjoins onto Charing Cross railway station. The second was in Brockley, less than five minutes from a suburban railway station owned by the South Eastern Railway Company. That, plus the fact that we knew Michael Finnigan shared a house with his cousin, suggested that at least one of them was involved. The railway offered a quick getaway in both cases and would have done so from this house, which is on the same line as the first two murders.”

“So that was why you chose this place!” Henriksen exclaimed. Sherlock nodded.

“I would speculate that Constable Finnigan is a covert supporter of Irish independence, several of whose fringe elements have threatened to disrupt the forthcoming Jubilee celebrations”, he said. “The murders were, I am sorry to say, incidental. I am sure that, had he been successful here, then the story of the playing-card serial murderer and the implication that Her Majesty might be the next target would have been leaked to the press. The whole ceremony would probably have had to have been cancelled, or even if it had gone ahead, many would have stayed away in fear.”

“The first murder is easy. Mrs. Wakefield admits a policeman into her shop, because who would suspect such an officer of the law? Mr. Honeydew told us how worried she was about security, so clearly the person that she admitted – because there was no forced entry – had to have been someone she could at least trust, if not someone she knew.”

“The second murder is more difficult, because he needs it to be discovered, but not too soon. I suspect that he actually planned it first, as he knew that Miss Mainwairing used her gardening skills to make herbal preparations, one of which he could use to dye his hair and create a disguise.”

“That was why his hair was wet!” I exclaimed.

Sherlock nodded.

“And the smell, if you remember”, he said. “The fire serves two purposes; to get rid of the towel he used to try to dry his hair afterwards, and to confuse us slightly over the time of death, as it would delay the cooling process _post mortem_. He sends the boy to the police station some streets away, and therefore has time to hurry to the railway station, where he takes the train home, and washes the colour out of his hair. He then arranges to meet with his cousin in London that evening and they naturally discuss work, which means that the connection between the murders comes out. Naturally they inform Henriksen, and the scene is set.”

“You are wonderful, Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Masters gushed, surging towards him. “I shall never be able to repay you!”

He deftly avoided being groped again, and dodged behind Henriksen before grasping his coat. I may or may not have accidentally moved into Mrs. Masters' way as she tried to reach him.

“Come, Watson”, he said, as the sergeant left the room. “We should return to Baker Street.”

It would have been totally infantile of me to stick my tongue out at Mrs. Masters as we left the room, and completely beneath a man of my position. But I did it anyway.

+~+~+

Ii was shortly after we reached our rooms in Baker Street that I noticed my friend was moving stiffly.

“What is wrong?” I asked anxiously.

“I think I may have pulled a muscle whilst striking his gun away”, Sherlock said, twitching uncomfortably. “I am sure that it will pass.”

“I have some unguent for pulls”, I offered. “Would you like me to put some on you?”

He smiled his small, genuine smile.

“Thank you, doctor”, he said.

We went upstairs, and he took off his shirt and vest before sitting astride one of the chairs. I fetched the unguent, and began applying it.

“Cold!” he muttered.

“It soon warms up”, I said, pressing the unguent firmly into his broad back. For such a slight man he was surprisingly muscled. “Though I doubt it will ever get as hot as that Mrs. Masters was today. She was all over you!”

“More was the pity”, he sighed, before letting out a pleasurable groan. “Oh, that is good!”

I applied a little more pressure, and leaning in, I could smell the ivory soap that he used every morning. I sighed contentedly.

“John”, he muttered.

He had used my Christian name. That was unusual.

“Yes?” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

“Thank you.”

“I am a doctor”, I smiled, working the unguent into his back. “And your friend.”

Yes, I was his friend. And that was enough for me.

It was. Really.

+~+~+

In our next adventure a man wears the wrong scarf, and there is a Dark Ages curse that seems to have regained its old power.


End file.
